


Dust And Echoes

by ShippersList



Series: Trope Train [16]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic, Established Polyamorous Relationship, F/M, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Not A Happy Ending, Post-Avengers (2012), trope: amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 15:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6664945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippersList/pseuds/ShippersList
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wakes up in a room that feels like home, with people who feel like family, and with an odd sense that he usually knows things.</p><p>He doesn't know who he is or what has happened to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust And Echoes

**Author's Note:**

> Title by [God Is An Astronaut](https://open.spotify.com/track/2fm78pmnHe4I7B9OHRqPFn). Very heavily influenced by Ludovico Einaudi's [Oltremare](https://open.spotify.com/track/7abUIdHn2uNnR75HP4BVFm).

[](http://imgur.com/Bcw3srQ)

His eyes open slowly, with slow blinks and gritty lids. They resist him as if they wanted to stay closed. It’s odd.

He feels a bit hungover with a slow, pulsing ache in the back of his head. It doesn’t feel like a new thing, more like a memory of a pain… of a phantom pain. Slowly, he turns his head to take a look at the room he’s in. It’s nice and comfortable, what with walls painted with warm colors, thick curtains in the window, a cross-stitched pillow on the chair near the window, and a quilted duvet on the bed. It feels like home.

He has no idea where he is.

As he pushes himself to sit, he’s hit with a spell of nausea and he has to close his eyes for a moment and breathe through his nose to get rid of the dizziness. It passes after a couple of deep breaths, but leaves behind a sour, metallic taste and an odd buzzing in his ears. He resists the urge to shake his head, fearing he might throw up.

Carefully, he moves to sit on the side of the bed. He has flannel pajamas on, and he traces the plaid pattern with his finger. Something about it is important, but he doesn’t know what, and it annoys him. For some reason, he has a feeling that he usually knows things.

He pushes his feet into slippers someone ( _He himself?_ ) has thoughtfully left waiting, stands up, and walks to the door. He can hear noise from downstairs, at least two of them children.

His children?

It feels both right and wrong.

 

* * *

 

The bathroom is two doors left from his door. It’s small but homey, just like the room he woke in. He takes care of his business and washes his hands with soap that leaves his hands soft with the barest hint of lavender. He doesn’t smell it until he rinses his face with cool water.

As he dries his hands on a towel, he notices that two of his shirt buttons have slipped open. The shirt is loose, and when he grabs it to button it back up, he catches a glimpse of something on his skin. Frowning, he opens the buttons to take a better look.

It’s a ridged scar, roughly the size of his palm. Cocking his head with a frown, he takes the shirt off completely and turns around, and isn’t even remotely surprised to see a similar, albeit slightly smaller scar on the opposite side. He turns to face himself again and places his hand on the scar. It makes him shiver, even though he can’t feel anything and the bathroom isn’t cold.

He puts the pajama shirt back on anyway.

After buttoning his shirt all the way up, he raises his head to look at the man the mirror. He sees a nondescript man with thinning hair, faded blue-gray eyes decorated with crow’s feet, a sharp nose, and lips pressed together.

He narrows his eyes at the mirror image and lets his lips draw into a barely-there smile. _Don’t fuck with me_ , something whispers in his mind, but he has no idea what it means.

 

* * *

 

The noise dies down when he enters the spacious kitchen. There are two kids at the table doing homework, and a heavily pregnant woman is stirring something by the stove. She turns, apparently suspicious about the sudden silence, and promptly drops her ladle when she sees him. It smears something orange on her dress, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

”Phil! You are up,” she says with a broad smile.

He blinks. Phil? That would be his name then.

Her smile turns slightly forced and she lets out a small sigh. ”You don’t remember, do you? It’s okay,” she says, not bothering to wait for the answer. ”We kind of guessed you wouldn’t. I’m Laura, and these two are Lila and Cooper. Nathaniel is still just a passenger,” she grins and pokes gently at her bump.

He gives her a hesitant smile. She looks like she’s waiting for something, and when he has nothing to say, her eyes turn sad.

Something feels off, and he can’t help but feeling he has somehow let this family ( _His family?_ ) down.

 

* * *

 

He takes his coffee with him to the porch and sits on the swing. The late afternoon sun paints the area around him with light, and as he sways gently back and forth, he thinks he might like it here. It’s peaceful and beautiful, but it also feels like something’s missing. He has an odd sense of everything being too quiet, too predictable, as if the house needed shaking up, and Laura, Cooper, and Lila aren’t enough.

He shakes his head as he stands up. Most likely, he’s just being unreasonable and impatient. From the look of the scar on his chest, he’s had a major injury, and recovering from something like that is bound to take time.

_You should be dead._

As he opens the door, he hears a low conversation and automatically stops to listen.

”When is Dad coming back?”

”I don’t know,” Laura answers.

”Is Daddy coming back?” Another, younger voice repeats, oddly hesitant.

There’s a moment of silence when he hears nothing, then she sighs and says, sadly, ”I don’t know, honey.”

He bows his head, sorry for the family he had robbed a father from.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, he wakes up to the smell of coffee. He treads downstairs and greets Laura with a hesitant smile, receiving a soft kiss in return. He takes his time reading the paper and taking care of the dishes afterward, and later, they head outside for a walk, all four of them.

It feels good and familiar, but yet he can’t help but feel he’s missing something.

 

* * *

 

”I think he’s doing better,” Laura says into the phone one afternoon, a couple of weeks after he first woke up without knowing where he was. He doesn’t need to see her to know she’s smiling, it’s all over her voice.

”I think you should come home and see for yourself.”

He wonders who Laura is talking to.

 

* * *

 

When he hears the door slam and a male voice enthusiastically greeting Lila and Cooper, he bolts from the bed so quickly his head spins a little and he has to stop for a moment to steady himself. He doesn’t understand why, but his heart is beating wildly, and he’s almost trembling with anticipation.

_That voice, it means something!_

It’s like a piece of him has been missing and he didn’t have a clue before it’s back. For the first time since waking up, he feels whole.

He moves hesitantly towards the stairs, takes one step at a time, and stops in the middle. He can see Laura’s floral dress and her bare feet, slightly swollen because of the pregnancy, and right in front of her, sturdy legs in cargo pants and working shoes.

He starts down the stairs again. Slowly, the rest of Laura and the newcomer become visible. The man is clad in tactical gear ( _How does he know that?_ ) and he’s resting his forehead against Laura’s, with his other hand around Laura’s waist and the other pressed against her stomach. He looks tired and beautiful.

”Hi Phil,” Laura says softly and smiles. ”Clint’s home.”

 

* * *

 

”I’ve missed you,” Clint sighs against his neck and squeezes him closer.

They’re resting on his bed, on top of the quilted duvet. He’s unsure of how they ended up there, but it feels right, having Clint there with him. He’s young and strong, smells like forest and sky, and something in his chest unwinds as he’s pressed against Clint.

”I’m sorry,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Clint makes a disagreeing sound and splays his hand against the scar tissue, hidden by three layers of clothes. ”Don’t,” he says. ”It’s not your fault. I’m just glad you’re alive and home.”

Carefully, he places his hand on top of Clint’s. He doesn’t have the heart to say he doesn’t remember anything.

But perhaps that doesn’t matter. Perhaps it’s enough that he’s here, now.

 

* * *

 

Clint takes him to long walks around the property. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they walk in silence. It’s easy and comfortable, and he revels in the relaxed smiles Clint gives him. In the evenings, they pile on the sofa, all five of them, and take turns telling silly stories about nothing at all. Turns out Lila outshines them all with her imagination, even though her stories tend to revolve around themes like ’evil wizards attacking earth, and Dad and Daddy saving the world and being big heroes until they come home and Mommy tells them to go wash up before dinner.’

They all laugh, but he can’t suppress a small shiver.

 

* * *

 

One night, Clint climbs into his bed, still smelling like Laura’s shampoo. It feels familiar and safe, and he lets his arms wrap around Clint on their own volition. At times, it’s like his body remembers things he doesn’t understand.

Clint burrows close, tense and worried. ”I’m heading out tomorrow,” he says. ”It’s… I don’t know what it is. I hope it’s nothing, but I have this feeling it’s gonna blow into our faces.”

”Oh,” he says and draws his head back a bit to get a look at Clint’s eyes.

They look at each other for several long breaths, then Clint asks, ”Can I kiss you?”

Clint’s eyes are warm with emotion when he leans in, and he lets himself be lost in Clint’s mouth and his touch. Later, when he comes all over Clint’s hand, he can’t help thinking _This is home, this is where I belong._

He falls asleep in Clint’s arms, surrounded by soft murmurs of love and fifty shades of blue.

When Clint leaves with sunrise, he doesn’t even stir.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up when something clatters to his side. He frowns as he clears his throat.

”Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,” someone apologizes.

He turns his head to look at a beautiful woman with sparkling eyes and a soft smile, her face framed with brown locks.

He has no idea who she is.


End file.
